Yes friends and fans, after years of neglect by yours truly, gerbilprobe.com has been completely re-designed from the ground up and is live! The lovely Sauda Namir helped bring it to the modern internet age with a slick new design that is responsive, cool and easy to update. Check out my music, writing, performance and everything in between all in one place. Let us know what you think after you click around a little while!

I feel the need to write, like I used to write, with the sharpened edge of a tortured artist, too pretentious for his own good, too introspective to care.

This will be one of those entries. If you are the kind of person who can’t handle raw honesty and who makes fun of people who use big words and let words flow out of them when they’re feeling emotional: fuck you. Get off my blog. I didn’t ask you to read it. You’re reading it because you want to.

I heard the most beautiful, saddest thing this morning. The band Cursive has a song called “What Have I Done?” If you haven’t listened to it and you’re in your 20’s – 30’s, go find it right now, listen to the lyrics, sit there in shock at how it perfectly sums everything up and come back here and hug me.

The prolonged adolescence of this generation is an enormous social problem. Twenty years ago, by this age most of us would be married with careers and families. Today, 30 year olds finish college and move out of their parents’ house after having a big party to celebrate their super-sweet-30th.

I’m writing. I’m writing a lot. That’s good. Now if I can do something with it, make it matter in a bigger way, get other people to read it, feel like I’ve reached the culmination of something, anything – so much the merrier.

How do you measure success?

I’m producing theatre. I have friends who I don’t see as often as I want to. I write novels. I go to conventions. I have nine letters behind my job title, in sets of three, signifying certifications that make me more valuable to the industry.

I don’t care if it’s self-indulgent drivel, it’s MY self-indulgent drivel. And it’s back from the grave. I found a way to integrate my old blog into this one, and the entries have been imported. For more things than you ever wanted to know about me, look back through the archives!

I’ll be tagging and categorizing things as soon as possible, because there are a few hidden gems here and there, most notably the “thought experiments” which I think you’ll enjoy if you’re a fan of philosophy and other weirdness. There are a few creative pieces buried in there too.

Anyway, I’m just glad to have it all back. There’s something about your life being spread out all over the web that makes one decidedly uncomfortable.

No matter what you have done, no matter how far-reaching your accomplishments, how many books you’ve sold or how many lovers you have taken to your bed, you do not know fame.

You wouldn’t know fame if it bit you.

I say this, because it did bite me.

At Bizarro-con 2009, I was bitten by famous author, Mykle Hansen.

I shouldn’t have been wearing a bathrobe – that was probably mistake number one. That’s practically an advertisement, really. “Hey famous author Mykle Hansen, look at my soft, pink, exposed forearms; my lean but hearty man-calves…” If I had known then what I know now, I would have worn pants that night; perhaps a parka. Maybe I could have borrowed a furry hat from Bradley Sands to complete the illusion that I wouldn’t make a delicious mouthful for famous author Mykle Hansen.

The signs were all there. We all know about famous author Mykle Hansen’s famous book “Help, a Bear is Eating Me.” Does he write in a vacuum? No, the book rings true with the voice of an experienced carnivore. His authorial voice certainly plays the part of the victim, yes, but the bear’s motivation and single-minded focus could only have been written by a man-biter.

Famous man-biter, Mykle Hansen.

But surely, the suits must belie his voracious nature! The perfectly fit suits? A clever ruse. Ed Gein wore suits too – suits made from human ears. Famous man-biter Mykle Hansen keeps his own ear suits underneath the outerwear, the feeling of severed human flesh against his famous skin giving him sick authorial thrills as he goes about his business.

How else do you imagine the tears in that bathrobe I wore at the convention were opened? An accident? There are no accidents. There is only famous robe-tearer, Mykle Hansen, flashing incisors that could cut through a can of tomatoes (or several layers of terry-cloth) in one vicious bite, swooping in savagely to grab a mouthful of bathrobe and pulling, endlessly pulling!

Famous deranged cannibal, Mykle Hansen, what with his dashing good looks and stories of elderly crack whores and giant rampaging penises!

You might say that I contributed to my own mauling, but what was I doing on that fateful night? There I stood, happily sipping my drink on the porch of the old administrative house on the grounds of Edgefield Manor. The sun had long since set, and the scent of beer and saltwater floated through on the night breeze. My robe flapped lightly in the night air as I held aloft a basket of orphaned kittens that I had recently rescued from a flaming charity hospital. Humbly, gently, I told my fellow bizarros the story of how, on my way to the saltwater hot tub, I had felt in my bones a tingling sense that I was needed, and how my heroics had saved the day. “Three cheers for Michael Rose, the bathrobe enthusiast/heroic savior of everything!” someone cried, as I blushed demurely. I regaled my new friends (humbly regaled) with tales of my selfless courage and heroic efforts, and everyone seemed to be in good spirits.

What I did not know – could not know – was that famous Satan worshipper Mykle Hansen listened from the darkness, his talons quivering in anticipation of his next meal.

Without warning, he struck, as horrified literati looked on, their mouths agape in shock and horror. Famous panda molester, Mykle Hansen, was upon me, his hideous antennae and oozing sores gleaming in the moonlight as his mouth loomed larger and more savage by the second, growing and pulsating with the rhythm of the ancient elder gods which cannot be named.
Unhinging his jaw like a serpent, famous snake-impersonator Mykle Hansen swallowed me up into what can only be described as a void. “I can not allow such an unabashed force for goodness and joy to exist in the world,” he exclaimed, as I felt holes in my flesh tear into the indescribably chaotic shape of witty satire.

And then, almost as quickly as it began, it was over. I awoke staring up into the moonlight, bizarro authors and fans all around, talking amongst themselves about walruses and buffet breakfasts, Cameron’s proclivity for hurling meat and the disturbingly familiar taste of Jordan Krall’s ass juice. Mykle stood nearby, his trademark smile gleaming under the moth-killing light of the outdoor incandescents by the ad-house.

Had I dreamed the whole episode? Had I imbibed too much ass juice? I went on with my business and tried to forget about it for the rest of the weekend, despite people asking how my bathrobe had been torn. I must have tripped and fallen into some shrubbery, or perhaps the disposable razors that bizarro fan Zoe was handing out had taken on a life of their own and juggled themselves around my tender torso. I tried to forget… to heal…

But now, friends, now the hideous truth has revealed itself. Even now, I feel the pulsing of the moon. Its waxing and waning have a bitterly poignant effect on me… I have been cursed.

Let this tale serve as a warning, dear reader. Beware. The actions of famous maniac baby-eater Mykle Hansen must be brought to light, lest future bizarro authors suffer the same fate. Heed this incredibly well-written story, unless you are willing to disregard the horror – the indescribable terror – of a complete lack of vowel control.

I’ve been temping at a lovely little development for the past 8 months, dilligently working away at whatever tasks they gave me. I noticed as the months wore on that little by little, more responsibility was being given to me, which I took as a sign that I was becoming a genuine cog in this crazy machine. Lo and behold…

I got my offer letter.

They consider me a “talent,” or so they say, so they’ve offered me an actual administrative assistant position with the company. Not only does it come with a lot more money, but it also comes complete with a full benefits package (health and dental, vacation time, 401k, all that good stuff)! The best thing of all? It won’t impact my artistic life in any negative way… I still have ALL my evenings and weekends off, and now I’ll actually be able to take a day or two off here and there with pay to make that time count!

Good things come to those who wait (and know when to play their cards). Don’t believe me? Listen to Kenny Rogers:

You got to know when to hold em’
Know when to fold em’
Know when to walk away, and know when to run…
You never count your money
When you’re sittin’ at the table
They’ll be time enough for countin’… when the dealin’s done.

I love it when I come across examples of smarmy, not-quite condescending enough to get mad at, but still vindicating speech and text in real life. This site, Passive Aggressive Notes, is the perfect way to get your fix of some of the funniest rudeness available. For those of us who enjoy using condescension in our daily lives (ie: anyone who works with the public) or even those who are affected by employers and authority figures with a witty mean-streak, it’s totally worth your time.

A woman just asked me to help her spell the name of her insurance company. “Montgmento, Monsurnetall,” she said, over and over, as I frantically looked for anything to assist my google. After a minute or two, I asked her for an address. “1st Avenue and Oak Forest,” she replied. So now I’m looking for a “Montugmeatballs” or some such thing at the corner of 1st and Oak Forest. Turns out it’s MONUMENTAL. You know, an actual word? And it’s in Oak Forest, IL. Not in Chicago on a street called Oak Forest. And besides that (excuse my elitism) she couldn’t spell Monumental.

There is a form our office uses from the Chicago Housing Authority that always prints off a blank page after the first page (which is the actual letter). They will not let us change this, even though all it would take is one back-space, and despite the fact that it wastes twice the amount of paper that could be used by printing a little “2” in the corner of an otherwise untouched page of paper. And people wonder why government agencies are losing money.

Play idea: Based on an actual true-life experience of mine from a few months ago, I am finally writing out the dramatic version. A homeless man engaged me in conversation at an El stop. Being friendly, I talked to the guy, and he asked me strange questions such as “Do you hate homeless people?” I, of course, said that I didn’t, and felt my liberal bleeding-heart ire rise. Turns out this was a strategy. To make a long story short (until you see the play, anyway), he followed me onto the train, sat next to me at the end of the car (effectively pinning me in my seat) and proceeded to ask me if he could come home with me and use my shower. This was a 300 pound man with ranting/inappropriate laughter volume problems. When I said that I couldn’t have anyone over, he told me I was full of shit (because I had previously said I didn’t hate homeless people) and threw cold pizza at me. Should make a fun 10-minute. I’m still not entirely certain how it will end though… it needs to be taken further than it was in reality (with me walking home looking over my shoulder)… thinking…

I’ve been having minor revelations lately, and I think it’s time to start sharing them with the world again. I haven’t blogged in quite some time, so please forgive me, dear reader, if I tend to ramble and seem to have lost some of my style during these last few months of drought.

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. ~Ray Bradbury

A handful of people who are important to me have been concerned about my complete lack of creative output these past few months, and with good reason. Writers write. I have not been writing. Have I been thinking about writing? Perhaps, but perhaps that’s not enough. As an existentialist, I understand that meaning lies not in the intent, but in the action.

The act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our equilibrium. ~Norbet Platt

Thus have I been contributing to my own decline as a writer. Long ago, in the throes of divorce and heartache, I told someone that the only things that kept me sane were the love of my significant other, and my creative output. I have one of those, but I’ve been neglecting the other, and so the cycle begins:

I am overworked, worried and tired, so I do not write.

I do not write, so I become depressed and angry with myself.

I am angry with myself, and so I use my energy up with self-loathing and become more tired.

Hideous. That said, this blog you are reading is the first of several steps I’m taking in order to get myself moving again, to unleash that kinetic energy that’s been building up and wasting itself, to motivate myself to do what it is that I do. Paige, Keith and Greg get special kudos for support in this particular matter.

But in the end, writing is a solitary activity. So now it’s my ball.

Being an author is like being in charge of your own personal insane asylum. ~Graycie Harmon

For those of you who enjoyed what I was scribbling before this long hiatus, look for:

The return of my Thought Experiments

Occasional news updates about life, love and lemurs

Snippets of new works, poetry, songs, plays, etc.

If nothing else, I want to entertain people again. What can I say? I’m an art-whore. For those of you who are still around, and who still count yourself among my friends, thanks, and please drop a comment or two. My new blog (frequently/freakishly updated) will reside at flooddamage.wordpress.com

I made a mistake this morning.
I watched George W Bush’s press conference.

Dubya is putting two bills through Congress right now. The first will basically allow us to torture whomever we want. He says that we are bound by Geneva convention article 3 which keeps us from transgressing over human dignity. He goes on: “Well, what’s human dignity? That’s pretty vague. Heh heh heh.” Vague? Heh heh heh?

WHAT THE FUCK?

Human dignity is human dignity. The republicans screamed and hissed about the definition of a blow job while Clinton was in office, and now they can’t define something like human dignity? “It’s so vague…” Really? It seems easy when we’re defining it for the rest of the world. “I don’t think Americans want international courts to decide how we protect ourselves.” Oh? I fail to see how torturing SUSPECTED “terrorists” half a world away protects little Timmy on his swing-set in Ohio.

This bill would allow them to “try suspected terrorists.” SUSPECTED. That means by simply writing this blog, they could justly fly me out to Guantanamo Bay and dunk my head in water until I pass out, all in the name of freedom.

The “American people have got to know the facts?” The facts according to a megalomaniacal idiot who lives in a world of fear and insanity?

He tells us that there is “an enemy who has attacked us and will attack again.” It’s been five years. FIVE YEARS since a handful of evil men flew a plane into a building and killed many innocent Americans. To use that tragedy as a rhetorical tactic to justify an endless war is a WAR CRIME. Who’s going to try George W Bush?

He says that this enemy “is trying to spread an ideology through the middle-east using violence. Through killing innocent women and children.” It’s time to look in the mirror! You don’t spread democracy by bombing hospitals. He turns around three seconds later and talks about how “dangerous” the world is… one attack in five years, and not even one that was based in military weaponry, is a pretty good record when you look at the horrors in Palestine and Israel, in Darfur, in northern Ireland… welcome to the real world, Dubya.

Unfortunately, the president is willing to use terrorist tactics to ostensibly fight terror. Does that not seem like a bit of an oxymoron?

His second bill will allow wire-tapping to a greater degree than this country has ever allowed spying on it’s citizens. It will allow Dubya to listen in on our phone calls, read our chat logs, find out anything he wants to about us. This bill would allow our government agencies a more intrusive role in our lives than at any time in American history.

“I think a lot of Americans are frustrated with the United Nations.” Oh? Really? By a lot of Americans do you mean you and your daddy? Because they won’t let you play war anymore?

He has said the words “protecting this country” sixteen times in the past ten minutes. Listening to him lie to the American public is nauseating.

The Federal courts have ruled that Bush’s ideas are unconstitutional and dangerous. How much power does this man think he has? We have a historically accurate word for men like this: Dictator.

How can people support this man? The same reason the German people supported Hitler… they stop thinking and get caught up in lunatic flag waving. Led down a road to hell by an idiot who thinks he’s a God-king. For God’s sake, wake up and think!

A question about “Illegal eavesdropping” becomes “Terrorist surveillance program” is the mouth of the beast… his rhetoric is carefully crafted to frighten and stupefy the American public. A liar, a thief, and God willing, a man that will go down in the history books as the worst president in American history. Our economy is in the toilet, our freedoms are being eroded, and we’re been dragged into an expensive and endless war against an abstract noun where victory is unassured, if not impossible.

And people wonder why the international community hates us?

It’s not for “our freedoms.” It’s because we’ve become arrogant and horrible. We are led by a madman, a terrorist himself, injecting his ideology into other places at an alarming rate and damning those who would do the same on a lesser scale.

“We’ve had a good record of bringing people to justice.” So did Stalin, you piece of shit. His own people. Wait for the purge everyone. You don’t think it’s coming? Maybe this is an exaggeration, but looking at the rights we’ve already lost, especially the freedom of the press and our privacy… better start reading Huxley and Orwell. They’ll prepare you for what comes next. I’ll come right along with you, kicking and screaming all the way. Why? Because I love the America that America is supposed to be. Not this evil empire.

The first blog I wrote was much more detailed than this one… it was deleted by a computer error. Perhaps that’s ironically appropriate…